


The Paul Simon Songbook (or how Paul Simon has been Art Garfunkel'ed into submission)

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel, Simon and Garfunkel - Fandom
Genre: Art is a jealous dork, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, College, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, In fact make that, London, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, New York, Paul is stupid in his own way, Pining, Romantic Fluff, Song Lyrics, TWO IDIOTS, i love them so much sob sob sob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: But what comes out of Art's mouth next instead, is "I resent your continued use of adjectives that refer to a person's cerebral capabilities to describe me".Paul doesn't miss a beat: "You are honest to god the biggest fool I've ever met".Or: the Art of writing love letters, by Paul Simon.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon, mentions of Paul Simon/Katty Chitty
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Art's roommate has left a square package addressed to him on the whithered, brown desk standing in his corner of their 3-bed dorm room. He quickly glances at it from afar and contemplates not opening it immediately since he's supposed to be studying for finals, graduation looming on the horizon in a matter of weeks, but curiosity gets the best of him.

The package has made its way over to New York from England. Art frowns. He can't think of anything that Paul would send him all the way from across the Atlantic. He can't think of anything that Paul would send him, period. Not now, at least.

As he pulls out the vinyl record from the cardboard packaging, and sees its cover, a strange mixture of pride and anger takes a hold in his mind. He's proud of Paul for making another album because Paul was _born_ to do this, but at the same time he feels another stab of betrayal at his supposed musical partner doing the music thing without him, again. The accompanying note reads " _Artie. This is one of the first copies. U.K. release scheduled for August. The songs could have used your voice. Yours, Paul."_

"Huh," Art scoffs. "Sure." He looks at the back sleeve and sees a few familiar titles. Songs that he and Paul have previously sung together, and others that Paul must have written while living his life in London. He tries not to let jealousy overwhelm him as Kathy, Paul's girlfriend, is featured not only on the cover of the record but has a whole song dedicated to her as well.

He has met Kathy when he'd gone to visit Paul in England during the previous year's summer break. And the thing is, she's a lovely girl, she really is. He guesses he can see what Paul, in turn, sees in her. But the main memory of the weeks with Paul in England that lingers is that he had had to grit his teeth multiple times to not let his resentment and insecurity show as he had powerlessly watched Kathy grab Paul's hand at dinner. Or when she had kissed Paul goodnight, and whispered in his ear, giggling, making sure Art wasn't privy to the conversation.

He lets his eyes roam over Paul's quickly scribbled note. "Yours, Paul."

Yours...He lingers on the word, devours it in his mind, willing it to come alive under his gaze. 

"Right, then," he sighs, rolling his eyes. He doesn't know if the eyeroll is directed at himself or at Paul, for having such a _stupid_ name. He lets the sound of the name roll on his tongue, pushes the last letter against his front teeth, and thinks back about how they used to sit and watch each other's mouths to see how a consonant made their tongues touch their palates in a specific place, or how they had touched each other's throats to feel their vocal chords vibrate. The image of the both of them with their hands on each other's throat, as if ready to choke each other at the slightest move from either one of them, makes his skin crawl. _Paul_ is stupid. Paul is annoying and embarrassing, always doing things his way, not caring about the path of destruction he leaves in his wake. He _hates_ Paul, he does. He should. Except he doesn't. Not even a little, not even at all. 

Heaving another sigh, he puts the vinyl on the shelf between some of his textbooks. He crumples the note in his hand and throws it forcefully in the bin.

Later that night, as he's ready to turn into bed, he fishes the note back out of the trash and tries to flatten the crinkles using the side of his hand. He safely tucks the letter as a bookmark between two pages of a book he's reading.

He reckons he's probably being an idiot, but he decides he can't help it. People in love are supposed to be fools. 

+++

Naturally, he can't sleep.

He keeps replaying scenes in his head from his and Paul's shared past. Like the time Paul had grinned up at him after they had just finished recording 'Hey Schoolgirl' and he had shouted "we're going to be famous, Tom my boy, mind my words!" Or the time when Paul had patted his back fondly, eyes shining with pride, when Art had received his Columbia entrance letter 2 years later. Or that time when Paul had fallen asleep in his bed after they'd gone out for a college performance and returned to the dorm room late, whispering in the dark so as not to wake Sanford and Jerry. Art hadn't had the heart to throw him out, least of all out of his bed, so he'd nicked a spare pillow from the cupboard in the hallway and had slept on the floor next to the bed. He had blamed Paul for his painful back the next day. He had also refused to wash his sheets for the next few weeks, because he didn't want to get rid of the smokey warmth of Paul's smell. Or the time they had gone down the 5th Avenue/53rd Street subway station in suits and ties to shoot cover pictures for their 'Wednesday Morning 3am' album and Paul had giggled uncontrollably when they'd spotted the lewd writings on the wall and realised that these would be in nearly all of the pictures. He remembers the goosebumps on his skin and the cold shivers running down his back when Paul had announced moving to England after their album flopped. And the way he had thrown himself into his coursework, being adamant about getting his diploma and passing with flying colours, as he battled the yearning and loneliness of not having his childhood friend with him in the same city, or even the same continent. His utter astonishment when Paul had appeared at his dorm three weeks after Art had left Paul and England to return to New York in time for the start of the final fall semester of his BA. Paul had announced he'd attend Brooklyn Law School to get his degree, and Art couldn't have been happier, because crossing the East River was a whole lot more convenient than crossing the Atlantic. He also recalls having a few glasses too many to drink at his acapella group's Christmas party and basically drunk-calling Paul and confessing to really, _but no, you don't get it Paul, and I know it's wrong but LIKE REALLY REALLY_ , really liking Paul. And how Paul had dropped out of school, packed his bags and moved back to England three weeks later, straight into Kathy's waiting arms.

Art hasn't spoken to him or heard from him in 5 months. 

Mostly, he mulls over his affections for Paul, that have grown from friendly to not so brotherly over the course of his teens to where they are now. Art doesn't think he will ever feel as much for anyone else as he does for Paul. But as all-compassing and grand his infatuation with Paul has ever become, it has hit a hellish low at the moment. Right now Art feels confused, betrayed, guilty and sad and he knows Paul will probably never look at him the same way ever again. Pigs will have to fly before the friendship between them regains any sense of its previous normalcy, however they want to define that.

Fuck, he is being stupid, he thinks. He'll have to get over this unrequited crush one way or another. Except Paul throwing his happy love life in his face really isn't helping anything.

When he finally does fall asleep, of course he dreams of Paul, _Paul_ , strange-named elfish creature, eating a whole jar of boysenberry jam. He fills his mouth with big, full scoops, and the deep purple juice is spilling from between his lips and dribbles down his chin. Art inches closer, fully intent on licking every last drop.

He wakes up hard the next morning, completely forgotten he's not _supposed_ to be this besotted. 

"Does the grocery store on Amsterdam and 120th carry boysenberry jam?" he asks his roommates. 

Sanford cocks his head to the left. Jerry raises one eyebrow. 

+++

He gathers all his courage late on Saturday evening and trots to the payphone across from the campus' entrance, a decent amount of quarters jingling in his pocket. Just when he has given the operator directions for the international call and hears the line connect, he remembers that it's 3am in London. He's on the verge of hanging up the phone, when a click and rustling sound on the other side.

"Artie?" a sound from afar, miles, oceans, planets away. The operator must have told Paul who the overseas caller was.

Art puts the phone back up to his ear. "Hi. Yeah, it's me."

"Hey. Hi. I'm glad to hear your voice."

Paul sounds sleepy. Art regrets his decision to call.

"Sorry I woke you," he explains. "I forgot about the time difference for a second."

"That's okay," Paul replies. "I wasn't asleep."

Art winces anyway and looks at a fly crawling up the payphone's glass door. He touches his finger to the fly's wings and it buzzes off to the ceiling indignantly. 

He waits a second longer for Paul to say something, but he meets only a crackling silence. Since he called Paul and not the other way around, Paul is probaby expecting him to get on with whatever he has to say.

Art clears his throat. He swallows and it sounds louder in his own head than he expects. 

"Ummm, yeah, listen. I got your record the other day. I guess congratulations are in order huh?"

He imagines Paul on the other side breaking into a smile.

"Thanks," Paul says, but he doesn't sound particularly over the moon. "Have you listened to it?" There is an anxious note in the electric current that is Paul's voice being transferred through the telephone line. 

"Oh, umm..." Art trails off. "I uh....haven't had the time yet."

He wonders if Paul can sense he's lying through his teeth. It's not so much _time_ he's lacking, but he is just a coward who hasn't been sure he _wants_ to hear Paul singing the songs on his own, which would surely put a damper on all the times they'd harmonised until dawn, just the two of them, Paul trying to rack his brain for a particular word he wants to add to a rhyme, and Art humming through the octaves to add the right harmony to whatever Paul comes up with. He doesn't want this to nullify all the laughs they've shared during their nightly songwriting sessions. And even though he has been desperate to hear Paul's voice again, singing about things that matter, he'd rather it was Paul humming sweet nothings into _his_ ear than Paul pouring his heart out for the whole world to hear about the girl he's fucking instead.

"Ah," says Paul.

As Art is trying to come up with a reply that will most probably be another white lie, Paul intercedes: "Can't you come down here during the summer? I've been kinda missing you, actually."

Art is taken aback a little. This is not how he has imagined this conversation to go. He has been thinking that, after wearing his heart on his sleeve during the last time he spoke to Paul on the phone, and Paul's answering poignant and quick departure from America, he wouldn't be welcome in Paul's life quite so soon again. Getting invited anew to spend the summer together overseas is the last thing he expected to happen.

Still, as much as he would love to see Paul again, he can't.

"I can't," he says. "I've got finals to concentrate on."

"I meant _after_ graduation, Art," Paul sighs. Art imagines Paul is rubbing his eyes and shaking his head at him, silently berating Art for being stupid. Granted, Art may be stupidly in love with the person on the other end, but he's not _that_ dense.

"I know that," he snaps. Then, more softly: "I...wouldn't want to intrude on you and Kathy."

This is probably the only truthful thing he has said to Paul in the entirety of the phonecall. He has no desire to be the third wheel ever again.

"Ah," Paul says again. "Funny thing about that, umm...We broke up." He doesn't elaborate.

Art hears a weird ringing sound in his head. "You did what?" he asks, incredulously.

When Paul speaks again, he sounds sad, and tired. "You wouldn't intrude," he half-whispers. "I could use a friend." It almost sounds like Paul's pleading.

Art is sure that Paul is the only person in the world who will ever manage to pull at all his heartstrings like this. But he is much less convinced he'll be able to easily forget the empty feeling Paul left when he fled to another continent without acknowledging anything Art had said, without even getting mad at him, calling him names, telling him nothing of the sort was _ever_ in the realm of earthly possibilities. Art thinks he deserved that, at least, instead of an ocean of silence between them after that drunken confession he now woefully regrets. In any case, he _can not_ and _will not_ be the one to have to comfort Paul about his broken heart, while his own is precariously falling apart.

"Are you sure the thing with Kathy is really over?" he voices, no inclination to beat around the bush. It's not that he's rooting for her, but the girl _is_ featured on the cover of an album. That has got to mean something. "I mean," he continues, "you wrote her a song. Has she heard it?"

Paul seems to chuckle. "You'd be surprised," he says, "at how a song's title and its lyrics don't necessarily have to correspond. You know as well as I do that it can be about something completely different than what the title suggests. Poetic liberty and all that."

"About what, then?" Art demands.

"About _whom,_ " Paul corrects him.

Art's mind is blank. He wonders if Paul would be so bold or so vindictive as to name a song after Kathy but write about another girl. Is that why they have broken up? Because Paul _cheated_ on her?

"Who?," he tries, again.

He almost literally hears steam coming out of the other man's nostrils, through the phone.

"God, Art, for someone who will graduate with a bachelor's degree from an Ivy League University in a matter of weeks, you sure have your way of being oblivious."

"How would I know...?" Art starts, but Paul interrupts him. "About _you_ , you dumbass. Half the album is about you. I literally used _your_ name in one of the songs."

"Are you quite finished calling me all variations of stupid?" Art asks Paul angrily, because this is getting ridiculous. He has no idea what Paul is talking about and quite frankly, he doesn't appreciate Paul's irritated tone, either. If he's going to be verbally abused by someone, he'd rather it wasn't Paul. Paul, the accomplished songwriter genius, who doesn't even match the lyrics to his titles. I mean, Art thinks, who even _does_ that? 

Paul seems to pick up on Art's mood, because he continues with "look, I don't want to fight. Call me when you've actually heard the album," and ends the call without saying goodbye.

Art is dumbfounded.

He jogs back to his dorm room and is, for once, glad that both of his roommates are out so that they can't comment on how he frantically tears the black disc from its sleeve and takes it to the common room. On a Saturday night, everyone on his floor is probably out dancing or having a drink and he is relieved that no one is lingering there, so he can hog the LP player. He picks up the needle, finds the correct place to lower it and lets Paul's familiar voice wash over him.

> _My mind's distracted and diffused_   
>  _My thoughts are many miles away_   
>  _They lie with you when you're asleep_   
>  _And kiss you when you start your day_

_(Kathy's Song)_

He listens to the whole thing, can't switch to the B-side fast enough, but even after locating his name in Paul's lyric that he'd been "Art Garfunkel'ed", he comes up blank. What does that even _mean_ , Art ponders. Nothing makes sense.

+++

The following day, Art doesn't even deem the exchange of greetings necessary when Paul answers his call. "The song," he starts, "literally has you telling the audience your heart lies in England. I mean, I don't get why _anyone_ , including me, would interpret this differently than what it means?"

"Art..." Paul groans. "Honestly, if that's the only line you concentrated on, I don't know what to tell you..."

"It's the most obvious one," Art retorts.

"It's...Since when do you take _anything_ I write so literally? It's maybe the only line that isn't about you amidst the 200 other ones that are," Paul explains, a pressing quality in his voice. "Have you even _heard_ the rest of the songs? _There but for the grace of you go I_? Or the meaning of ' _Flowers Never Bend_ '?"

Art balks. "But..." he starts, but he has no time to finish the sentence.

"Listen, are you going to be a smart-ass about it, or are you going to accept that _I_ know the meaning of _my own_ songs? That I wrote? About things that I...? About the person that I intended them for?"

A vague notion hits Art in the back of his mind that what Paul is saying should probably resonate differently with him. That this is, in fact, very important information that Art should give more thought. That if Paul is actually saying what he supposes Paul is convincing him of that he's saying, it would really mean _everything_. But what comes out of Art's mouth next instead, is "I resent your continued use of adjectives that refer to a person's cerebral capabilities to describe me." 

Paul doesn't miss a beat: "You are honest to god the biggest fool I've ever met."

Art inhales deeply. His hands feel clammy.

"She's on the cover of the album, Paul."

"Yeah, well, I could hardly put _your_ picture on the cover of _my_ solo album, now could I?" Paul counters.

Art is so taken aback that his brain neglects to register the beeping tone in the telephone receiver and he forgets to put another quarter in the telephone set. The line disconnects.

+++

"Listen to this," Art accosts his roommates. "What do you think this means?"

He stands before them, the two of them sitting on their beds, and reads the lyrics that he has scribbled down on a piece of paper aloud, without giving them any other context.

> _My mind dances and leaps in confusion_   
>  _I don't know what is real_   
>  _I can't touch what I feel_   
>  _And I hide behind the shield of my illusion_   
>  _So I'll continue to continue to pretend..._

_(Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall)_

Jerry laughs. "A bad trip?" he offers. "I mean, the 'I don't know what is real' and all...it's got to be about hallucinating! Right?"

Art has smoked a few joints together with Paul before, so it wouldn't be utter nonsense, he thinks. 

Sanford, the most sensible one of the three, bless him, scoffs, then touches his chin with his fingers. "Assuming this is a love poem or letter, as they almost all are, I'd say that the writer is confused. Maybe they're in a relationship. They're pretending...while they love another. Who is unattainable...or whom they think is out of their reach. Hence they can't touch that person. In the literal sense. Or they don't want to confront their own feelings yet."

Art blinks, but continues to read.

> _I've built walls_   
>  _A fortress deep and mighty_   
>  _That none may penetrate_

and

> _Don't talk of love_
> 
> _But I've heard the word before_   
>  _It's sleeping in my memory_   
>  _I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died_   
>  _If I never loved I never would have cried_

_(I Am A Rock)_

"This writer's afraid of the love he feels. They may have been burnt before," Sanford adds, pondering.

Art's resolve to have his roommates prove Paul wrong, is crumbling. "And what do you make of this?" he all but begs them.

> _Up a narrow flight of stairs  
>  In a narrow little room  
> As I lie upon my bed  
> In the early evening gloom  
> Impaled on my wall  
> My eyes can dimly see  
> The pattern of my life  
> And the puzzle that is me  
> From the moment of my birth  
> To the instant of my death  
> There are patterns I must follow  
> Just as I must breathe each breath  
> Like a rat in a maze  
> The path before me lies_
> 
> _(Patterns)_

"Again with the confusion they feel, their mind being a puzzle. About something that might be unconventional?" Sanford offers. "Going against the mainstream of societal expectations? So they feel trapped?" he concludes.

"Yeah," Jerry nods frantically, as if he's just been offered five popsicles at the same time.

"Who wrote that?" Sanford asks. "Are all of these by the same person?"

Art's face falls and his eyes grow large. Shit, he thinks.

+++

For the third day in a row, Art anxiously holds the phone receiver in his hand. "Sorry," the operator says. Her voice sounds bored. "The person you're trying to reach isn't picking up right now."

Paul doesn't answer the phone on Tuesday and Wednesday either.

+++

By Thursday evening Art doesn't know what to do with himself. He's been nervously pacing all day, so much that Jerry has had to lead Sanford out of their dorm room and they've gone to the library to study, leaving Art alone to brood, as they'd called it.

He knows he should study, but he's been staring at Paul's note for the past 30 minutes. His left index finger traces the letters of Paul's name over and over. 

He supposes he should probably look for a phone book so he can go and call the airline to book a plane ticket for a date shortly after graduation, when a knock sounds on the door.

He's not really in the mood for company, as his roommates had rightfully sensed, so he swings the door open with more force than he intends. "What is it?" he says, irked that people won't leave him alone.

"Is that any way to greet me?" Paul says, and, completely Paul-like, doesn't wait for any invite from Art to step into the room, ducking his head and slipping under Art's arm that is holding the door open.

He turns, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, to look at Art, who is rooted to the spot. "I have come to educate you on the meaning of having been Art Garfunkel'ed," Paul says, matter-of-factly.

Art manages to somehow close the door behind him, his heart in his throat. "You still think I'm a moron who needs lessons in poetical analysis and reading between the lines, do you?" It comes out a a statement. He's not even sure he intended it as a question. Paul takes a step closer and nods. "I do. ' _Fools, said I, you do not know_ ', and all that." The last bit comes out as a whisper.

"Oh. Well," Art says. "' _Take my arms so that I might reach you_ ' was in the same verse, right?" He doesn't know what makes him so fearless as to say _that,_ thinking he's taking a whole lot of chances, but Paul sneaks another step closer anyway.

"It was. That's pretty good for a simpleton to remember." His eyes start to shine, in a way that makes Art's knees go weak. 

He can't take this. Art needs to stall. "Are you sure you want to hang out with an idiot such as myself? I mean..."

Paul is impossibly close now. "I do if it's _my_ idiot," he says, calmly, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

Art is dying. He is positively pissing his pants. His last-ditch effort at salvation is him stammering "So are you...gonna tell me what being Art Garfunkel'ed means, then?"

"No," Paul says. "I'm going to _show_ you," and leans in. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jerry leads Sanford by the arm, and up the stairs. 

"Here we are," he says to the man behind him, and fishes out the keys to their dorm room out of his pocket while balancing both of their textbooks in his other hand. 

He takes one step inside, and then stops dead in his tracks.

Sanford, unaware of his roommate ceasing movement, bumps into his back, emitting a small cry of surprise. 

Jerry quickly grabs Sanford by the shoulders and steers the man around, making sure to take care to close the door quietly. 

"What?" Sanford asks, a little panicked. "What is it? Is it Art? Is he okay?"

"Art is...more than fine," Jerry searches for words. "He's umm...We gotta spend some more time outside," he finishes urgently.

Sanford frowns, then raises his eyebrows high above the dark rims of his thick glasses. "What is going on? What's Art doing?"

Jerry has no clue how to answer that question. For a fleeting moment, he wishes for Sanford's blindness, so he wouldn't have had to see what he just did. 

"Art is...studying," he finishes lamely. 

"Oh," Sanford pipes up. "It's about time he took a look at that modern art history course if he's planning on graduating any time soon."

"More like a _modern_ _biology_ course," mumbles Jerry, unintelligibly. "Looked like he was getting straight A's." 

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Jerry laughs. "You were right. They _were_ love letters. The texts that Art was reading to us the other day?"

"Did he say who the author was, then?" asks Sanford.

"I'm guessing you'll find out soon enough," comes the reply. "Come on," Jerry adds, and leads Sanford back down the stairs. 

**Author's Note:**

> I heard Kathy's Song for the 1000th time the other day, and this idea hit me. You will not be able to convince me that this isn't exactly how it went down.
> 
> I tried to stay as closely as possible to Paul's UK timeline, but damn, that shit's getting confusing. I'm not exactly convinced Art shared a dorm room with Sandy and Jerry in 1965 still, but hey, they were too good to not write in the story, so...
> 
> Sanford has written a book that will be released at the end of next month, called 'Hello Darkness, My Old Friend', with an introduction by Art, by the way. I think I'm going to pick it up for a read.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr!](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/post/618893579735138305/the-paul-simon-songbook-or-how-paul-simon-has) and reblog the fic post, if you please :D


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